Poetry Friday

Here's some writing I did for my poetry class a few weeks ago in response to the poem excerpted and linked below.  

Ode to… something? 

We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world.

-          Jack Gilbert, “A Brief for the Defense”

I think that’s my favorite line from the poem. 

The assignment is to write about my joy scenarios, about trying to live out my joy scenarios.  I’ll admit it, I didn’t practice it during the two weeks we were off.  In fact, let’s review my week. 

The day after class, I decided to rearrange the furniture, despite the little voice in my head reminding me that every time I try to rearrange the furniture alone, it ends in near-disaster.  I was trying to make a nice writing space and I have lingering childhood fears of lower levels. 

I’ll cut to the chase. 

A heavy mahogany table slipped out of my hands on the basement steps and with a rattling boom broke a hole in the drywall.  After asking me if I took a video of it, or at least a sound recorded of what I said right after it happened, my husband said simply, “Good luck fixing that.”  

So if we had to write about ruefulness, I could do that.

On the upside, I bought myself a lightweight desk from Target.  And I put it together myself, thankyouverymuch. 

So if we had to write about pride in accomplishment, I could do that. 

Then the weekend.  Not bad, spent time with my family of origin celebrating a birthday.  Monday morning, my daughter woke with the stomach flu.  Then I had to worry that she had infected my family, especially my 81 year old mother. 

Yep, I could write about fear.

Tuesday I sent her back to school too soon.  Wednesday, home sick again and at the doctor’s office.  Nothing serious.   I probably didn’t need to take her to the doctor and she probably could have gone to school at least for a half day. 

If we had to write about uncertainty, I could certainly do that.  

Swirling around me are news stories that make me want to vomit.  The way people dismiss the sexual harassment charges against Herman Cain.  The way they immediately choose to discredit the women, devalue their victimization, retreat to viciously divisive claims about liberals, the media and race.  Then the Penn State mess.   I read the grand jury report.  All 23 disgusting pages of it.   I have a nine-year old son and could only imagine the absolute horror, the pieces left for a child and his parents to pick up. 

I could write about anger.  I know anger, what it feels like, what it tastes like, what it makes me want to do.  

I am a self-proclaimed anger expert. 

A friend reminded me we need to be fair, no witch hunt.  She was right. 

I could tell you all about anger that has nowhere to go. 

But joy.  What the hell does it mean?  Happy, I get.  I’m usually happy, I think.  Or content.   I laugh a lot.  But sometimes I’m laughing at myself, or even at the outrageous ridiculousness of our world.  Maybe that’s not happy.  Maybe that’s sardonic.  Maybe sardonic makes me happy.

I remember going to a WW retreat once and having writing prompts about joy.  I had the same problem then, settling on defining joy as a dishwashing liquid.  And that was before cancer. 

Shoot, nothing can suck the joy out of a room, whatever that means, like a cancer diagnosis.

Or can it? 

I keep going back to what Mary said about joy having a tinge of sadness.  What Gilbert does by juxtaposing horror and laughter.  Does one need the other?

At the bus stop on Friday I was dropping hints to the kids about a school-wide party they are having this week to celebrate their Blue Ribbon award.  My son wanted to know if they were giving away Xboxes to all of the kids.  My daughter was disappointed to know that there will be some instruction time.  Geez people, I said, your school doesn’t have to do anything for you.  They could say great job and get back to work.  But nooooo.  They are doing something special to let you know how important you are to the school.  Why not try to have a little gratitude?? 

And there it was.  I coupled gratitude and shame.  Just like my parents did for me and generations of parents have done to generations of kids.

I’ve had this conversation before with other parents, about our own children’s seeming lack of appreciate for “how good they have it.”  I came back to Mary’s statement about joy being tinged with sadness.  Maybe to know gratitude, you have to know something of its opposite – the lack of something, the fear, the scarcity.  Maybe as parents we should congratulate ourselves or thank whomever we thank for our children growing up without knowing basic wants, or the fear that with one wrong step it will all come crashing down.  They will know it eventually.  We can’t shield them forever.  But maybe for now, it’s ok. 

I also resist the duality that seems to underpin this idea.  That for one thing, you need its opposite.  That in order to experience any one feeling, you need to be acquainted with its polar opposite.  I’m tired of polar opposites, choosing this side or that side.  I live in a world of gray.   Most of my day isn’t spent in the throes of intense emotion either.   And the opposite of that is so close that it’s more like hand holding than north and south.   

The Test You’ll Never Take

-Katie Ford Hall  

If north is the opposite of south

and no is the opposite of yes and

if winter is the opposite of summer

and red is the opposite of green,

but knowing that

hate isn’t the opposite

of love

and war isn’t even

the opposite of peace,

forgetting everything you

thought you knew about truth

and lies

but keeping in mind

that while speed and

time aren’t

opposites

they are

inversely proportional, 

complete the following sentence.

blank is the opposite of joy.